


Evening Tide

by plsnskanks (orphan_account)



Series: spooky au [2]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vampire Matt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/plsnskanks





	Evening Tide

Tom finds himself shoved up against the wall, giving a soft little “oof” as its done. He has to admit, he’s a little turned on by being manhandled.

He definitely shouldn’t be.

He should be terrified.

Because his housemate is looking at him with deep red eyes that catch the light and swallow it, fangs that touch down past his lower lip and a predatory tension throughout his body.

“You sure this is okay?” Matt asks tentatively, face returning to its deceitfully human form for a moment.

Tom sighed in exasperation.

“Ask me that one more time and you can go find a hooker to feed off of or something,” Tom mutters.

Matt wrinkles his nose, “I don’t do that, that’s so low class.”

“Oh? Am I prime quality by comparison?” Tom grins, leaning in. Matt can smell arousal radiating off his skin, hear his heartbeat, and almost taste the copper call of his blood. He wants to bite Tom. Make him moan and then make him beg.

He’s dinner and a lay, and boy, if that thought isn’t appetizing.

“Yeah, you’re a cute little slice of prime rib,” Matt purrs leaning in. He gives Tom a long lick up the side of his neck. It tastes of salt and tang and a promise of satisfaction of skin. He wants to bite Tom then and there.

But he has class.

One of the things Matt prides himself in is that he isn’t lazy. It’s easy to force satisfaction on a human partner. A bite, a bit of coercion, and you have an easy meal and a sated partner.

Where’s the art in that? The challenge?

The fun thing about Tom, after you become acquainted with him in bed, is that his body is like an instrument. Pull here, tug there, kiss just so, and he is singing songs for Matt he’ll never sing for Tord or Edd.

Brute force can only achieve so much.

Matt scrapes down the side of Tom’s neck, leaving a hairline scratch that stings and lets off just the smallest puff of the fragrance of fresh blood. Tom lets out this tender little gasp.

Matt knows Tom likes pain. It’s like water to him. Unlike Edd who will give him pain in measured doses or Tord who will heap it on Tom as an odd way of indulging him and spoiling him, Matt doesn’t like to give Tom what he wants. With his razor kisses and his needle sharp nails and his bruising touch, Matt could absolutely rip him bloody, lick him all over and make Tom love it.

But he doesn’t want that. He wants to use the precision gifted to him from the gates of reanimation to send tingles down Tom’s spine, to ghost touches who’s absence have Tom feeling more than he’s felt in years. He wants to give corpse kisses that breathe life into parts of Tom that he hadn’t even noticed stilled into silent sleep.

Maybe Matt is just so pretentious he has to turn even sex into some narcissistic form of art. But they can call him what they’d like, because if after ever time he sleeps with Tom, he leaves with a Mona Lisa memory of their time together, well…

Who can blame him for his hedonistic work?

He licks the scratch and kisses it after, just barely rubbing his fangs against Tom’s skin. He hears Tom’s heartbeat spike in excitement and it’s just precious. He’s so reactive, always lingering on the edge of excitement at the prospect of attention, whether it be good or bad. Matt presses Tom up even closer into the wall. He 

knows Tom likes it. That feeling of being prey, of being cornered. Matt thinks the stress and pressure of the situation goes straight to Tom’s groin.

The feeling is mutual.

Matt can feel his own pants growing tight and he grinds his hardening bulge into Tom, growling lowly as he shoves him up harder against the wall, aggressively rubbing their bulges together. Again just teasing at the brink of painful.

He thinks deep down, maybe Tom doesn’t even like pain, he just likes the idea of force because he correlates it with passion. Desire. Need. For him and only him. He knows that feeling, that want to be the air taken in by the lungs of the person you love. To be the only thing the one you hold dearest can subsist off of.

Tom is whimpering with his eyes shut, Matt can smell his precum from here. It’s probably staining his boxer shorts. He reaches down to unzip Tom and watches in enjoyment as some of the tension leaves Tom’s face as his cock is allowed its release. Matt grips him and starts to slowly rub and stroke Tom, enjoying the moans of pleasure with their little hairline cracks of desperation.

He starts to finger Tom’s ass, pulling some lube out of his pocket to coat his fingers in first. If he had Tom shift before they did this, he wouldn’t have to use lube, he wouldn’t have to be careful. He wouldn’t really even have to think.

But Matt doesn’t want a fuck.

That’s boring. He can get a fuck anywhere, from anyone. What he has, here and now, is something else and he wants to relish in it.

Tom is pushing down on his fingers. He wants it harder, faster, rougher.

Nope. Not today. Not with Matt.

Maybe it’s a little bit dirty, but Matt waits for Tom to get rambunctious before he bites him. Waits until he starts being a bit too energetic and lets his masochistic side come out,

Matt bites down into Tom’s neck, smoothly, gingerly. Tom can barely feel it. Matt could make it excruciating if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He starts to drink and Tom’s little shifts and thrusts down on his fingers grow weaker as he gets lightheaded.

There we go.

Matt likes him like this. Punch drunk on endorphins, feeling tingly and giggly all over. He looks at Matt confused and slack jawed, but dopey with good feelings. Matt continues to spread him with his fingers, this time unhurried by Tom’s  
desperation. Tom’s slumping a bit more heavily against the wall. He’s relaxed, he feels good.

Matt pulls out his fingers and starts to push in. Gradually Tom makes his way down his shaft as Matt returns to his neck nipping and sucking to take the edge off the stretch of his cock. Even through his haze Tom notices the stretch. He mewls a little and Matt supports him so that he can get the most comfortable angle to help Tom take his whole length.

In time, they get there. Tom still dizzy and out of it. He livens up quite a bit when Matt starts to thrust in. Pretty much right away he finds Tom’s favorite spot and aims to hit it. He starts nailing it with dead on precision, over and over again and the body under him starts to squirm in discomfort.

This is what he loves about Tom.

Tom loves abuse. He loves scrapes and cuts and slaps. So when you really want to make him uncomfortable, you just have to put him in the spotlight of pleasure, heap it onto him. It’s like warming frost bitten hands, it stings and it burns but it returns life to something that was formerly on its way to shriveling up and blackening.

Tom is looking at him with open eyes that are like the dark night he was born under and it is like free falling into an open void. He’s confused and grasping out for the security of pain and Matt will give him absolutely none of it. No bitterness. No cruelty. Just raw pleasure that makes him writhe.

His thrusts are these long, hard, slow ordeals that push out whines and pull out moans. Hands claw at his back, trying to provoke anger or irritation, but they’re like soft pinches compared to the torment that Matt has experienced.

He will never let the world scar Tom the way it has him. Even though his marble skin is flawless, his inner self has been cut to ribbons over and over again, and all Matt can cling to is the idea of safe guarding his little half human monstrosity from the cold touches of coming to know the true nature of time and its effect on the mind.

He presses an open mouthed kiss to Tom’s lips and Tom licks in greedily, probing at Matt’s fangs. So predictable. Before Tom can even attempt to cut himself on one Matt hits him with a mental wall, just to stun him for a moment while he takes control of the kiss. Tom submits to his dominance and simply lays back and allows Matt to explore him, with his cock and with his tongue, with his very own blood coursing through his veins.

Matt belongs to him as much as Tom belongs to Matt, and it’s nothing but a silver thread that ties them, easily snapped within a moment, if Tom or Matt should desire.

Matt lets Tom pull in air as he returns to kissing at his neck, licking at his older wounds, watching as his saliva heals them. Tom’s neck should be scarred to high hell by now, but Matt is careful. He always makes sure to undo his marks. Tom has too many scars already, he doesn’t need any from Matt as well.

Scars tell stories, sing the offbeat tune of a body’s tortured past, and Matt refuses to be even a single letter more tacked onto Tom’s lengthy volume.

He presses his forehead to Tom’s and whispers a soft little “I love you.”

And Tom is gone. Present in body, sailing off away in mind, coming like the unceasing tide rolling in across the lowland fields, sweeping clean any trace of coherent thought from his mind. Matt loves this. This little moment where Tom floats away, letting out a little keen and cum softly splattering across his stomach, the scent tinting the air slightly salty.

Matt licks that up too, another bit of Tom’s vital force he is happy to ingest. He pushes in one final time and he too is cumming, long, hard, but without that same otherworldly expression as Tom.

When Matt moves back from the wall he takes Tom with him.

“Wow, that’s always going to be a rush,” Tom says as a wave of dizziness hits him. Matt smiles at him as he watches his cloudy expression clear up a bit. Matt shifts him up so that he is carrying him. He walks Tom upstairs and goes to his own room. It’s funny to think all those mirrors hanging on the walls are hollow now, all those pictures look flawed and imperfect in comparison to his now godlike visage.

The reflective surfaces show thirty different Toms, from all angles and sizes. Each one a mortal fading thing, head resting tenderly on Matt’s invisible shoulder. Sixty pairs of dark eyes stare back at him and Matt remembers what it feels like to be human again, just for a brief second.

It’s this terrifying rush of vulnerability and sense of being a flickering ephemeral light, standing out against the rushing black that comes from the far off fields of the beckoning night.

Then Tom’s eyes close, Matt lays him down and forgets himself as he watches him sleep


End file.
